Army of Two
by Chell-P
Summary: Joanne Watson has returned from Afghanistan after being made to retire early due to being shot and now thinks she has nothing left interesting to do with her life. Until she meets the mysteriously strange and handsome Sherlock Holmes. Now life has definitely got more interesting...
1. A Study in Pink (1)

Joanne Watson woke up with a start, screaming covered in a cold sweat like the many times before, her shoulder-length dirty blonde hair sticking to her face. The nightmares she has are of her days being in Afghanistan. It scared her memory so deeply, like the bullet wound in her shoulder. Now not being able to sleep, she made her bed as best as her bad leg would allow. Afterwards sitting on the edge, putting her hair up into a messy bun. Joanne stared at the cane across from her that was propped against the desk wondering why she tortured herself like this. Day in and day out.

Much later that morning, Joanne opened the laptop in front of her the web page loaded instantly to the page of her blog, the only thing it bore was the title that displayed her name: 'The blog of Dr. Joanne H. Watson' nothing had been written not one entry in the slightest. It made her think 'who would want to read about the depressing life of a former army doctor. I mean who would?'

Later that day Joanne now found herself sitting opposite her psychotherapist Ella, for her usual appointment. "How's the blog going?" Ella asked with interest seeing if Joanne had made any progress with the blog like she suggested.

"Yeah, good," Joanne started convincingly at first, clearing her throat. "Very good," she went on to her therapist, she's done some of her blog.

But her therapist doesn't buy it for a second. "You haven't written a word, have you?" she asks knowingly, before she writes it on her notepad.

Joanne notices instantly what her therapist has wrote down reading it out upside down. "You just wrote 'Still has trust issues'."

"You read my writing upside down," her therapist points out that to she has a problem with trusting people, if she couldn't trust the very person that was trying to help her. "You see what I mean? You're a soldier, it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you," she told her it would take time, getting back to what was considered 'normality' since her army days. And writing a blog about what she did day to day would help, but Joanne just knew nobody would want to read about her boring life.

"But nothing ever happens to me," Joanne told her therapist honestly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. And it was unknown to one Joanne Watson that a few short months later, she would meet a man that would change her life, for the better.

 **-Sherlock-**

January came and it was now nearing the end of the month. Some progress had been made with the blog since her last therapy session with a few updates. As for getting back to 'normality' she'd meet up with a few old school friends from Blackheath, not once did anyone mention her leg. The 'serial suicides' that had been in the news recently struck her as odd, with all the deceased having no connection to each other. Which made no sense whatsoever. But meeting the army nurse Bill Murray who saved her life in. Reminded Joanne of how nothing interesting was happening with her life.

It's until she was taking a leisurely stroll through Russel Square Park one brisk morning, cane in hand limping along the pebbled path, not realising her fate was about to change.

"Jo! Joanne Watson!" someone called out to her. She turned to see a rather portly man with brown hair and glasses getting up from a bench and approach. "Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together," he introduces himself, seeing if she would remember him, giving herself a couple of seconds to think.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello," as Joanne now recalled, giving him a small yet friendly smile and firm handshake apologising politely.

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!" Mike mentions gesturing to his body that he's piled on the pounds over the years since they had last saw each other.

"No," she brushed off convincingly that he hadn't changed.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" He asked about her time away

"I got shot," she responded awkwardly leaving both equally embarrassed about it.

A little later they have bought take-away coffees and are sitting side by side on a bench in the park. Mike looks at Joanne worriedly. Oblivious, Joanne takes a sip from her coffee then looks across to her old friend.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" Joanne asked her old friend if he was still at the hospital.

"Teaching now," he informed joking with a smile, "Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" both of them laughed.

"What about you?" Mike inquired to Joanne about her current living situation, "Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension," she confessed with a deep sigh and taking another sip of coffee.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," Mike protested how unlike her it was to not admit defeat, "That's not the Jo Watson I know."

Joanne shifted uncomfortably on the bench, "Yeah, I'm not the Jo Watson..." before she even started to speak she stopped. The air between the two becomes awkward once again as Mike looked away and drank his coffee thinking he might of hit a nerve. Joanne switched her over cup to her right hand, gaze directing down to her shaking left hand, she balled it into a fist as she tried controlling the tremor before Mike turned back round again.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike casually suggests, if her older sister would take her in for shelter.

"Yeah, like the hell that's gonna happen!" She scoffed with joyful sarcasm, knowing that her drunk of a sister wasn't going to be of any use to her right now. Seeing as they hardly never got on. Ever since her messy divorce from Clara a couple of months ago she had just gotten much worse.

Then Mike came up with the daftest idea that maybe she should live with some total stranger. "I dunno... get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on - who'd want me for a flatmate?" She scoffed again with a roll of her eyes, not taking Mike seriously as he chuckled at Joanne's response.

"What's so funny?" She stared at Mike in confusion.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." He recalled.

"Who was the first?"


	2. A Study in Pink (2)

Mike informed her of a somebody who else was currently in a similar situation to Joanne's on the way to St Bartholomew's Hospital or St Barts as most Londoners called it for short. They arrived knocking on the door one of the labs this person would be in announcing their presence

"Well... this is a bit different from when I was last here." Joanne joked, as she limped into the room, with microscopes, lighting and shelves full with chemicals.

Her old friend chuckled in agreement, "You've no idea!"

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." A man asked with a deep baritone voice to Stamford, whilst ignoring Joanne deliberately on purpose and returning to the microscope. He had dark curly hair and wore a nice tailored black suit. So this was the 'potential flate mate' Mike had in mind for her.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike directed back in a slightly annoyed manner.

"I prefer to text." The man responded shortly without care.

"Sorry. It's in my coat." Mike apologised with a shrug, after having patted down his lab coat. She wasn't sure why, but the statement had that underlining quality of a long running joke to it...

She saw the dark haired man slump his shoulders ever so slightly, but maybe it could have been very likely from him looking into the microscope. Also... being the 'nice person' everyone says she is, fished out her mobile phone the one Harry gave her.

"Here," Joanne offered, holding up her phone, "You can borrow mine if you like."

The man looked up, like it was the first time he took notice of Joanne (which wasn't the case seeing as he intentionally interested in whatever was under the microscope). Only this didn't seem to bother her at all. Being looked over was something she's used to.

"Oh." He voiced slightly surprised, standing up. "Thank you." Walking over to her and taking the phone.

"This is an old friend of mine, Joanne Watson. But she prefers Jo." Mike introduced gesturing to her beside him.

For only a moment, their eyes met briefly... Joanne wondered why she felt this moment was a turning point...that, if she makes the right choice here, life would change for her forever. But for some reason, that familiar rush similar to that she felt once in Afghanistan flowed through her...like she was wanted.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked, eyes on her mobile as he swiftly typed a message.

Joanne's heart froze as she stared back at him in confusion, "Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He briefly glanced at Joanne slightly amused by this, she hesitated stuck on how to react looking across to Mike who just smiled smugly.

Joanne asked suspiciously shuffling her feet, going into 'soldier mode.' Was he reading her mind? "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know ...?"

Suddenly, the appearance of a young woman came into the lab carrying a mug of hot liquid before Joanne could even finish questioning the man.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." The dark haired man graciously took the mug putting it down and then shut down Joanne's phone handing it back to her. "What happened to the lipstick?" He gestured pointing to her lips.

"It wasn't working for me." She offered sheepishly with an awkward smile. It was obviously clear to Joanne that she fancied the bloke. I mean he was attractive that much was true, maybe at some point from being in the army she briefly forgot what it felt like to be a woman.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He noted a little insensitively for Joanne's liking. As he sat down back down to the microscope, took a small swig of coffee from the mug and pulling a disgusted afterwards.

"Okay." She spoke quietly, turned and left through the door. Her heart went out with sympathy for Molly and now looked to the man out the corner of her eye.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Joanne looked to Mike for an explanation again about wether it was him or her the unnamed man was directing this question to. But only to then realise that it was in fact for her.

"Um... I'm sorry, What?" She asked raising her eyebrows, turning to face the man as he continued looking through the microscope.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," He turned and went to type at the laptop next to him, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," A smile was given to her which was obviously fake.

Joanne's eyes widened, shifting her gaze to Mike. "Oh, you ... did you tell him about me?"

"Not a word." Mike smirked putting his hands up briefly in surrender.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" Joanne questioned getting rather irritated as she turned to the man.

"I did," The man started explaining as he picked up his coat and put it on, "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"Mike-but! He's a bloke!" Joanne sputtered and then turned to Mike shaking her finger angrily at him. "A detail you forgot to mention!"

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" He slipped on his great dark coat as it swung around him like the cape of a matador fighter.

He looked up at Joanne again with that same false smile like as though he's barely tolerating the presence of those lesser of intelligence in the room, now with flourish he got up and picked up his mobile phone checking it

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock."

"Do you have the tendency to not answer questions?" Joanne briskly asked. She wasn't even sure about wanting a flat mate now. It was just starting out as a whim that's all.

"More than other things," he says rather distracted, winding a navy blue scarf around his neck and striding toward the door. "I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Mike sputtered in horror and Joanne surprising even herself let out small unintended laugh. The man looked back at her, taken aback ever so slightly by her reaction. It's been awhile since she's laughed.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry - gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." The odd man slipped his phone into his coat pocket, walked past Joanne and headed towards the door.

"Is that it then?" she asked the grin still apparent in the tone her voice.

"Is that what?" He stepped back in the room slightly.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." He gazes at Joanne again, and she sees a silver glimmer in his bluish eyes that's how strange they seemed to her.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid." She looked downwards at her leg, shuffling nervously. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

"What...?" Joanne is stuck, the words dying to come out stayed in her throat.

He turned back in the direction he intended going, opened the door going through it he forgotten something poked his head back around the door. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon" With that he gives Mike a final nod, then with such cheek the bastard winked at her and disappeared around the corner of the door that closed behind him.

Joanne turned looking to Mike in utter disbelief on what just happened.

"Yeah. He's always like that." Mike offered with a nervous chuckle.


	3. A Study in Pink (3)

Joanne returned home, sat on her unsightly bed, the metal springs shifting and probably the sound one of it springs snapping. Digging into the pocket of her worn jeans to check through the messages on her phone one in particular from Sherlock Holmes sent to her.

If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH

She stared at it a couple seconds more rather puzzled by it and then shook her head. It made her wonder what the man actually did for a job in some aspects. Maybe something to do with the police, but why send a text about arresting some bloke? Sherlock was definitely one that didn't like to make conversation.

He was arrogant, really quite rude and there was the possibility that he might was an absolutely mad. Looked about 12, definitely a public school boy no doubt about that and strange but in a likeable sense. Even the thought of her own sanity came to mind in agreeing to check the flat with him tomorrow.

Curiosity now getting the better of her Joanne heaved herself off the bed and hobbled with her crutch to the desk. Awhile having set up her laptop, she googled his name and clicked on Sherlock Holmes personal website: The Science of Deduction. Not wanting to miss out any information the man had written, soon learning he's a detective of sorts. But the police would never work with private detectives.

Awhile later she updated her blog, staring at last words she wrote on the page before her:

So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.

-Sherlock-

After spent most the day pondering, pacing and wondering, Joanne bit the bullet. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to go and check out the flat, possibly even like it even.

"Ok it's now or never Joanne no backing out now..." she muttered to herself as the flats build just comes into view. The location itself was in a moderately busy part of central London and the building wasn't that impressive but it was solid. Next door to it Joanne noticed a café with a red canopy the name 'Speedy's written in white upon it. Just about to knock on the front door a black cab pulls up at the kerb.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted her, before passing the cab driver some money through his window, "Thank you."

Joanne turned to greet politely him, "Ah, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," he insisted, giving her hand a firm shake.

"Well...this is a prime spot. Must be expensive..." Joanne mentions, subtly hinting at the possibly high price for this place.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

Joanne asked with an incredulous look at him,"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh, no. I ensured it,"Sherlock returned to her with a smile.

"Ensured it...you mean..."Joanne gawked at him.

"Sherlock, hello!" the voice of an older woman called to him, as the door comes open revealing a woman with a kind face with wrinkles that had been kissed with many years of happiness and joy. With outstretched arms, which Sherlock walks into her embrace like a loving mother to a son.

Sherlock stepped back to introduce Joanne, "Mrs Hudson, Dr. Joanne Watson."

"How do you do?" Joanne greeted, her thoughts still hovering on what Sherlock had previously said.

"Hello dear," Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at her, making her feel all warm inside and out. Making Joanne wonder if this what it should feel like to be smiled at by your mother, "Come in, Dr. Watson."

"Thank you, that would be lovely," Joanne said, stepping inside.

Her first thoughts after ascending the stairs into 221B, was how queer and unusual the flat was. The sitting room was a tad on the small side along with its ancient tacky wallpaper, but compared to her current living arrangements at the bedsit, it was nice to know that it has a separate room solely for sitting in. There were also some boxes strewn about all over the place, but other than that, it seemed an okay place.

"Well, this could be very nice," Joanne spoke casually, still not bothered by the clutter, "Very nice indeed."

"Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," Sherlock answered rather eagerly, looking about the flat rather pleased as he continued, "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

In that very moment Joanne remarks, "After we burn all this rubbish of course..." it had meant to be a joke, but from off Sherlock's alarmed expression she felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment, "Oh...so this is all ...?"

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit," Sherlock said before sweeping a stack of files of the writing desk into a random box labelled 'crockery.'

Feeling like a complete and utter arse, and nervously shifted her feet. Sherlock gathered a pile of correspondence along with a knife of all things and used it to pin the papers atop of the mantle.

Joanne notices something else upon the mantle piece, raising her cane to point at it and asked, "Is that a skull?"

"Yes, friend of mine," he picked up for a moment, as Joanne noticed the skulls toothy grin, Sherlock frowned now realising how odd it sounds, "When I say 'friend' I mean...look you don't have a penchant for sent things alight do you?"

"What...no! No, no, honestly I was just joking..." Joanne put her free hand up in denial. Like an angel Mrs Hudson with came swooping in to rescue them from the awkwardness, knocked on the door.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms?" the landlady offered teasingly with a wink.

Joanne frowned before informing the woman, "Of course we'll be needing two, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, don't worry dear; there's all sorts round here," she said dropping her voice in whisper near the end, "Mrs Turner next door's got married men. Sherlock has his quirks but he's a good man," she gave his shoulder an affectionate rub before floating off into the kitchen, turning to Sherlock with a brief frown, "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made!" Mrs Hudson scolded him lightly, picking up a mug.

Joanne decided to let the comment slip her mind, shaking her head and hobbling over to one of the armchairs, plumped up a cushion and dropped herself into it and glanced over at Sherlock tidying up a little.

"I looked you up on the internet last night."

He stops picking lint off the mantle to look at her and ask, "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction."

"What did you think?" he asked smiling proudly.

With a disbelieving snort, with Sherlock looking mildly dejected he haughtily sniffed, "Seriously, you couldn't possibly identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes, like I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone," Sherlock challenged the woman.

"How exactly?" Joanne asked the very question of what had been eating at her since meeting him yesterday, the question partly being the reason she's here.

With a mysterious smile, Sherlock picked up a newspaper and went over to the window, ending their conversation.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson asked, peering over Sherlock's shoulder at the newspaper, "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four!" Sherlock announced, seeing a police car pulling up outside with blue flashing lights on its roof and somebody getting out, "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time," and as if on cue, from downstairs footsteps could be heard and a man entered the room.

He was tall, about two inches shorter than Sherlock with tanned skin, silver hair, wearing a crisp grey suit and white shirt that brought out his skin more.

"Where?" Sherlock asked with a clipped yet crisp voice, but tried holding in that quiver of excitement.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the man told him pushing back some of his hair with his hand.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Sherlock gave his affirmation and the man continued, "This one did. Will you come?"the man begged with a hopeful look in his eyes. Joanne noticed that he looked rather desperate for Sherlock's help.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked immediately.

The man let out a sigh of near frustration that he had to respond to the question, "It's Anderson."

But judging the twitch in his Joanne could tell didn't like him too much as he now let out a scoff, "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant," Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," he replied, glancing in Joanne's direction as a brilliant new idea comes to him. With a nod of his head, the man nodded at Mrs. Hudson and Joanne before trotting off down the stairs. Once the man was out the door Sherlock could barely contain the excitement he brought forth.

Sherlock waits until he has reached the front door, then leaps into the air and clenches his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily, "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" he whooped, pumping his fists happily. With a swirl around he donned his trench coat with the finesse of bull fighter and his navy blue scarf, before searching for his gloves.

"Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food!"

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper!"

"Something cold will do. Joanne, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Sherlock instructed, running out the flat and charging down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson turned back to Joanne, "Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same," Joanne grimaces at the repeated implication that she and Sherlock are an item, "But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell," she was starting to feeling a little uncomfortable, just as Mrs Hudson turns towards the door, "I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!"

There was a terrible drawn out silence that comes afterwards. But the look Joanne returned Mrs Hudson, was the look of a woman who was lost, with such appalling sadness her heart went out to her with tinge of regret for the woman, "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing ..." she gave the cane a bash against her leg.

"I understand, dear; I've got a hip," Mrs Hudson sympathised, patting her hip before going into the kitchen again.

Joanne let out a sigh before picking up the newspaper Sherlock had dropped earlier to give it a look over, as she asked over her shoulder, "Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you."

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper," the landlady called back sternly.

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em."

"Not your housekeeper!" Mrs Hudson sternly returned again, as Joanne continued reading the paper.

But Joanne now sensed some standing in the doorway and looking up from the paper she sees Sherlock gazing back at her as he asked, "You're a doctor," she confirmed this with a nod folding up the paper, "In fact you're an Army doctor."

"Yes," she again confirmed, slowly rising to her feet and turning to Sherlock as he entered the room.

"Any good?"

She raised her eyebrow in reply, "I once performed an API the middle of a desert and gave someone a tracheotomy with a biro."

"Is that hypothetically or...?"

"Both actually, twice," she preened a little. Joanne was a humble person by nature, but when it came to dealing with trauma she was pretty damn good at it.

"That is truly awful the things you have probably seen; a lot of injuries and violent deaths," Sherlock said. His words spoke of sympathy, but he has insanely inappropriate grin on his face. Just for a second, a flash of navy blue caught her eye flickering to the scarf around his neck. A sudden thrill of anticipation bubbles up in her stomach.

"Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," he added, with some excitement in his voice.

"Oh, yes...enough, I think for a lifetime."

"Want see some more?" stopping, Joanne looked up to him, with wide eyes. Was he really asking her to do this...to go with him? At first, she immediately thought was, 'No,' but something inside her told her to give a different response.

"Oh God, yes. Thought you'd never ask," Joanne smiled back, with an enthralling sense of adrenaline coursing through her. Returning back with a smirk, Sherlock started to head down the stairs.

Joanne limping along on her cane after him out the room and down the stairs, calling out to the landlady over her shoulder, "Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out!"

"Both of you?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, just as Sherlock almost reached the front door before turning to walk back towards the older woman.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" taking her by the shoulders he noisily kissed her cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent!" Mrs Hudson protested half-heartedly, a slight smile on her lips, just as he turned away and headed to the front door again.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" flinging the door open dramatically walking out and hailing the approaching black cab, "Taxi!" Was it a good idea to do this? What would her mother say...but. This wasn't her mother's business what she did anyway. Only if Mike could see her now, he would definitely be saying 'This isn't the Joanne Watson I know'. With a shake of her head, Jo had no choice but to follow after the mad man.

-Sherlock-

Well here they are in the cab after Sherlock convinced her to...now what is he going to do? His objective had been getting her to come along, which he did. So, now what... Feeling he's at a standstill Sherlock took out his phone for a distraction and leered at the screen to avoid any conversation. But, however as they sat at the back of the taxi in silence, Sherlock observed Joanne out the corner of his eye who continued on staring without saying a word. Eventually getting rather impatient about the needless silence and uncomfortable mood, letting out a huff of breath from his nose Sherlock spoke up and lowered his phone.

"Okay, you've got questions," it bothered him slightly to let the woman nag him with only her eyes. How on Earth did she do that?

"Yes, where are we going?" she instantly asked. (Pretty obvious, unimaginative. Boring)

"Crime scene. Next?" Sherlock shot back impatiently, annoyed at the simplicity of her question.

"Who are you?" Joanne asked, Sherlock thinking that it was much better question he was unsuspecting of however, there was an akin to with something of wonder. Although with a hint of skeptical wonder, "What do you do exactly?"

"What do you think I do?" Might as well get her to do some thinking.

"I'd say private detective ..."

"But?" Sherlock gets her to continue.

"...but the police don't go to private detectives," she concluded, looking at him with a slight twinge of doubt.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job," Sherlock voices with pride.

"What does that mean?" Joanne inquired, getting rather more intrigued.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"Yes, well by all means that is clever, but the police don't consult amateurs," Joanne went to provoke him, with a look that told him Well, prove it then. Okay then, if she wanted proof he'd give it to her.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised," Sherlock began.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your hair, kept in a military bun, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room ... said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq," he finished off with a click of the final word.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp...of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother," Joanne didn't have a brother.

"Hmm?" Sherlock holds out his hand, "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare...you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then," having since given to Sherlock he looked it over as he talked, "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving," Joanne concluded.

Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

Joanne blurted out looking at him in amazement, "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

With a smile Sherlock continued, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them," once finished he passes Joanne her phone back.

There's a drawn out heavy silence.

"There you go, you see–you were right," he spoke hurriedly and nervously.

"I was right? Right about what?" Joanne raised an eyebrow at him.

"The police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock looked out the cabs window with a smirk before nervously biting his lower lip, nervously awaiting for Joanne's reaction.

"That ... was amazing," she voiced matter-of-factly slipping her phone into her jacket pocket.

Sherlock whipped his head around to look at her, and for the first time in he's in utter shock that his mind goes blank for a couple of seconds. Joanne stayed looking ahead, with an astonished smile creeping at the corners of her mouth.

"Do you think so?"he finally managed to ask quietly.

"Of course it was," she returned immediately turning to look at him, "It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.

He scoffed with a slight sad smile on his face, "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" she asked with curiosity raising her eyebrow.

"Mostly 'Piss off'!" Sherlock briefly smiled at Joanne, who with a grin turned away to gaze out the window.


End file.
